


Nothing to Keep Me from the Storm

by bloodofthepen



Series: Regrets, Like Old Friends [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1455808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No visit, no call. A daughter back from the dead can't just deprive her mother of a simple 'hey, I'm not dead' from the moment she found herself revived to the moment the Reapers arrive without consequence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing to Keep Me from the Storm

When Shepard received a message with the subject line: “CALL ME” from one Admiral Hannah Shepard with a body that read: “THIS IS NOT A REQUEST,” she knew she was in trouble.

  
The commander closed the window as soon as she read the thing and folded her arms. Her gaze lingered on the galaxy map, suspended on the bridge, bright and inviting until you looked closer, found the red streaks and animated Reapers mock-terrorizing planets like some child’s game. If only their tactics, at least, could be so simple.

  
Today, however, there was nothing to be done—they were in a holding pattern until a full report from intel came through—unless, of course, they wanted to sweep the area for survivors again. A risky move if the _Normandy_ was to lay low in the sector long enough to get the jump on Cerberus. Today, there was time enough for small personal matters like a chat with your mother.

  
So, Shepard decided to wait it out for another twenty-four hours.

  
_Something_ on this ship needed her attention, damn it.

\---

Two failed games of poker, one discreet sweep of the sector, a dozen conversations, three attempts at fitful sleep, and almost precisely twenty-four hours later, Shepard locked her quarters, gave the order to cease all video and audio monitoring therein, and made the call.

  
Shepard clenched and relaxed her fists. Perhaps the admiral would be busy and—

  
“ _Artemis Regina Shepard_.”

  
“Hello, Admiral,” she replied dryly.

  
A face more care-worn than the commander remembered glared from the terminal, all dark circles and firm lines around her mouth that told of sleepless nights and countless worries. Her dark hair was streaked with grey, loose around her ears. “How many times must I hear from others that you’re alive? This time it was Hackett, before it was Anderson—”

  
“There’s a war on, Mom.”

  
“All the more reason to call,” she snapped. “Rumors, Artemis—” Her voice cracked. “Rumors. And then Anderson tells me you’re alive after two years—I try to contact you and all I get is _one line_ : ‘Sorry—launching a suicide mission; didn’t want to get your hopes up.’ I couldn’t even verify that it was you!” Even through the screen, Shepard could see the tears fogging grey eyes. Eyes that were never a reflection of hers, always grim seas where Shepard’s were hard ice. “Now—after Earth—Artemis—we’re all we have left."

  
The commander shook her head. “You have the fleet, and I have the _Normandy_.”

  
Tear-filled sentiments battled a wounded snarl. “Artemis—how—we’re family—how ca—”

  
Shepard’s fist rattled the desk.

  
“Stop. You’re getting as bad as Dad.”

  
All expression wiped clean off her mother’s face, as though a bucket of water had been cast over her features. “Your father. That’s what this has been about?”

  
“If he’d done his goddamn job, he and his squad would still be here to help.” Shepard averted her eyes from the screen—they alighted on the holo of Thane; she fixed her gaze firmly below her mother’s face.

  
Hannah’s gaze softened. “Darling, I thought we’d—I’m so sorry—I should have realized—”

  
Shepard’s eyes flicked back to the screen, burning. “Don’t be sorry. What the Hell have you got to be sorry for?”

  
“I should have known you were still hurting—the guilt—I thought when I took you to—”

  
The Commander’s expression snap-froze, blue eyes narrowed. “I’m not hurting. Not from that. It wasn’t my fault: it was his. If he’d done his job, hadn’t gotten distracted about my bloody safety and just stuck to his damn training—”

  
“You don’t know that—”

  
“Yes. Yes I do. I’ve been there.”

  
The admiral frowned, pointed a finger at the screen. “Listen to me: I am grateful for the sacrifice your father made—it kept you _alive_ Artemis, and you—”

  
“I was and am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. He got twenty men killed, Mom.” She was beyond being pleased to see her mother flinch at that. “Twenty good men and women. That mission was a fucking failure because he couldn’t keep his mind on it, and if you think my life is more important than getting shit done, worth more than twenty-one lives, I have no goddamn idea how you became an admiral.”

  
She cradled her greying head in her hands. “Artemis. Artemis. Twice that died on Torfan.”

  
Shepard’s lips were pressed in a thin, pale line. “That’s the difference. I got the job done, and if I have to be called a butcher—so be it. Someone, somewhere slept safer that night.”

  
Hannah did not pick up her head. “Artemis—I—” Her voice wavered.

  
“Don’t mourn for a daughter you didn’t have.”

  
The admiral turned her eyes to the screen, bright with stubborn, unshed tears.

  
They had one thing in common, at least.

  
“Sometimes it’s not about the mission. Sometimes, it’s about your humanity. The opportunity to _forgive_ , Artemis.”

  
Shepard’s throat closes. _Siha._ He called her an angel even when all she brought to the galaxy was death.

  
“Forgive and build something new and beautiful once the smoke has cleared.” She leans into the screen. “That’s why we fight, why your father fought, why so many die. It’s not about the mission or the headcount or cleaning up the galaxy. Artemis, this job is about the _renewal_ that comes after we’ve done the dirty work.”

  
_I’ve taken many terrible things out of this galaxy._ Shepard could not think of one good thing she put in it. The only good things were happened upon and came and went like the tide.

  
Shepard closed her eyes. “I can’t build. I’m made for taking dangers out as I can, and that’s what I’ll do. I don’t create, Mom. I can’t _fix_ things. Right now, the galaxy needs somebody who can wipe every goddamn Reaper out of the galaxy. Someone who can destroy. That’s the good I can do, and I’m going to do it.” A crooked smile touches her lips. “Damn good thing I’ve already got the reputation to back me up.”

  
The tears remained unshed, Hannah’s gaze resigned. She sighed. “Good luck, Commander.”

  
“Thank you, Admiral.” The victory was hollow.

  
Her eyes flicked up to meet Shepard’s through the screen. “Just—call next time?”

  
Shepard smiled, ribs wrapped tight around her lungs, ignoring the welling behind her eyes. “Yeah.”

  
The commander disconnected, knowing they were both well aware it would not be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Florence and the Machine's "Hurricane Drunk"


End file.
